Lobo Love
by Rational Lunacy
Summary: Sam always was the black sheep, the freak in his already twisted family. But when he gets bitten by a werewolf, a whole new world opens up for him. It's a new type of picket fence life, and if only Dean would stop trying to fix him. wincest/mpreg/season 1
1. Ignorant

**Note:** This is short because it's tired out and I just wanted to get this posted. I'll be happy to write more tomorrow. This isn't entirely 'AU' in the sense that the over-all plot of the entire show doesn't exist (like the demon and so on), it just sorta happily skirts around it and leaves it in the background. I love the plotline of the cannon-show, I do, but I love /watching/ it, not writing it. Makes my brain go nuts. So anyways, just roll with it? :3

**This story /starts/ in season one, sometime between episode 5 'bloody mary' and episode 6 'skin'. **

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Lobo Love

Ch.1 - Ignorant

They'd done everything right, Dean thought, they'd gone into the situation more prepared than they'd been for a case in a long time. Of course, that meant that Murphy's Law absolutely had to come into play to screw them over. It was beyond unfair, it was just cruel. So far the hunt had been mindlessly easy, and that was saying something considering they were tracking a whole pack of werewolves. Sam and Dean had arrived in town a good two weeks before the full moon. A friend of a friend of their Dad's had called them in to pick up the job because he had pressing family concerns to attend to. He provided them with all of the information he had on the werewolves in the area, where their hunting grounds were, who he suspected they were during the rest of the month, and so on. So far the grizzled old hunter, a man by the name of Stephen, had managed to track down and waste three out of the total five he'd found in the town.

Of course the brothers did some of their own research, just to double check things, knowing in their line of work that you could never be _too_ prepared. Now, there they were, one werewolf down, one to go, and damn it, Dean had no clue where Sam was and he wasn't answering his phone. The full moon was only really 'full' for one day out of the month, but it looked full for three days, and for some reason that seemed to be enough for the creatures to turn at around midnight. It was the last of the three days, and Dean didn't want to stick around another whole month just for one wolf. He knew he would do whatever it took to finish the job, of course, given that he'd told Stephen he would, and even if it was long-winded, he was a contact of their Dad. They may have their faults, but if there was one thing anyone could say about the Winchesters was they kept their word, and they were loyal to the extreme. They'd finish this job no matter what.

Dean felt like one big bruise, and damnably useless as he tried to call Sam for the millionth time. He was walking stiffly, having run down a dark alley and twisted his ankle in a pothole, regained his footing and stupidly kept sprinting with it for several blocks. The adrenaline was keeping him moving, keeping him ignorant of the pain he'd be feeling once he found his brother and they were both safe. It also made his heartbeat pound in his ears, his skin crawl, and the edges of his vision full of stars. The call went straight to voice mail as it had every time he'd called in the past while, and Dean swore, shoving his phone back into his jacket pocket.

He had to calm down, he had to focus. Finding Sammy was his first priority and he couldn't do that if he wasn't thinking straight. Dean ran his shaking, bloodied hands through his sweat soaked hair and stumbled blearily through the back-alley's he'd been in all night long. He dragged his eyes over his surroundings, walking too fast for his dead ankle, trying to figure out where the wolf might have taken him. He was assuming of course his little brother had been beaten senseless and carried away to have his heart eaten. Not the most flattering of thoughts, of course, but Dean had learned to expect the worst case scenario first and then work from there.

The end of town they were in was seedy at best, and it was only barely lit by the full moon that was causing their problem to begin with. The buildings were all old brick with moss and ivy and grime encrusted so deep they'd never be entirely clean again. Everything in this district was shut down, except for the odd apartment building that was still running but really shouldn't be. That left plenty of empty warehouses, old rundown homes, and condemned structures for a werewolf to be hiding out, feasting on his brother's internal organs. Dean rammed the heel of his hand into the side of his head a few times, as if shaking water out of his ears, just to stop that train of thought. It made him dizzy with rage and fear, which didn't help him one bit.

As he walked, Dean pulled out his flashlight and the marked up map of the town that Stephen had presented them with two weeks ago. He'd identified one particular building as the den of the wolves he'd already wasted. It was just a small, one-story home that was closer towards the respectable side of town, and had only been officially condemned for about a month or two. The only wolf left had, as far as Stephen knew, never taken up roost in the place whenever she turned, but at this point, it was Dean's best shot. It was several blocks away, maybe a mile even, so Dean started running.

Whenever his ankle started protesting, or the stitch in his side grew unbearable, Dean made himself conjure up the images he'd pushed away only moments ago, of Sam as werewolf fodder. The adrenaline would return full force, and his pain would fade for that much longer. Coming upon the house, Dean tried to control the shaking in his hand. He didn't want to aim for the bitch and miss due to some spasms he was having. A broken ankle, maybe some cracked ribs, he'd had worse.

Dean knew that most sane people would not be flooded with relief upon hearing ferocious snarling and growling. But Dean wasn't sure that he'd ever had any chance at sanity with the way he'd been brought up. He approached the house, trying to listen for Sam. His worry warped into panic when he continued to hear only the werewolf's growling.

Suddenly, as he was just outside the front door the noise stopped and he knew that the wolf had probably heard him all the way down the street, but for some reason it hadn't bothered with him. That wasn't all that comforting, and ultimately was the final straw. Dean kicked the front door clean off its hinges and stormed into the house. He didn't have to look far. Sam was lying on the floor, and limp, eyes closed, with the she-wolf crouched over him. As soon as he saw her, he didn't hesitate, his finger pulling back the trigger several times, not satisfied until he saw the creature fall to the side and away from his brother. Dean sped forward and shoved the werewolf away with his good foot, and then, despite how clearly dead the thing was, shot it a few more times, just to let off some steam.

Then Dean was on the floor, kneeling down next to Sam, ear pressed to his chest, and there it was, a heartbeat. There weren't any obvious outward signs of injury, but that never meant anything. Sam was breathing slow and deep, almost like he was sleeping. Dean tried to shake him awake, but Sam was clearly too out of it, and he gave up. He fumbled with Sam's deadweight, for a few moment's not entirely sure he'd be able to get him out of there. Soon enough, however, he had him in a fireman's carry and was trudging out of the house, trying to backtrack in his mind to where they parked the impala.

* * *

As it turned out, it was a two mile walk to the car, and then a half hour drive back to the motel. He was glad for the late hour, seeing as it meant he received fewer stares for carrying Sam over his shoulder. When he managed to get the door shut and set Sam on his bed, Dean was starting to feel his own injuries. He ignored them as usual, seeing to Sammy first.

Dean had expected all the scratches, both deep and shallow, and the bruising. Nearly all of Sam's wounds were minor and easy enough to patch up, except one. Dean's eyes were glued, wide as saucers, to the deep, unmistakeable bite mark on Sam's shoulders. _No..._


	2. Petting Zoo

**Note:** Sorry this took a while. I'm in a sort of writing funk, and I'm trying to go with the idea of 'write what you want to, when you want to because if you force it, it comes out like shit'. But ideally I know that's not cool and I should try and write more often, even if it's just a paragraph a day. That's how you ingrain the habit of proliferation in yourself. I hope you like this, and I hope you guys think that the boys are in character because I always feel like I'm not keeping him IC at all. u3u

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Lobo Love

Chapter 2 - Petting Zoo

Dean discovered his purpose in life a bit earlier on than most people. Granted it was his father who discovered it to him, but it had been found nonetheless. That purpose was clear cut and allowed no room for error: look out for Sammy. That was it, that was all, and damn he'd _always_ been good at it. Even now, even with what they'd been through, what Sammy had been through, he figured he'd been doing a good job. When Jessica had died, for a while Dean had thought he'd failed at his job, his purpose, simply because of how much Sam had been hurt by the whole affair. Dean had watched him go through all five stages of grief, and had thought, _I messed up, I didn't protect him from this, I should have._ But after a while he grudgingly accepted that there was nothing he could have done, none of them had seen it coming. All he could have done, and all he did do, was be there to pick up the pieces of his baby brother and put him back together and keep going.

Now, however, this was different. Sam was sound asleep, and the sun was rising, and Dean was imagining all the ways his father might try to kill him for being a piss poor big brother. Sam had been bitten by a werewolf. There was no cure for that. There was no apology good enough, no antidote, no method or means by which Dean could make this better. He had definitely failed this time, failed to look out for Sammy. Because now Sam was one of those things that go bump in the night, he was a creature, he was something that they hunted, and Dean wasn't sure what he was going to do. If their Dad found out, not only would he kill Dean for screwing up so bad, he'd kill Sam for what he'd become. It was the principle of the thing. Werewolves weren't tameable, they weren't curable. They were mindless beings three nights out of the month and all they wanted to do was kill people and eat their hearts.

But the rest of the month outside of those three crazy days, the rest of the time, the wolf lying on the cheap motel bed was Sam, his little brother, 'little Sammy' who ironically enough was now more like 'Sammy the sasquatch.' Dean knew he wouldn't be able to kill him, he couldn't, even though the hunter in him knew it was what he had to do. By the time the sun rose, Dean was telling himself he'd find a way, no matter how impossible the situation was, how futile he knew it to be. He would look out for Sam, and he'd protect him from himself, and from all the hunters out there, and if he had to, he'd protect him from their father.

Sam was stirring from his sleep finally, kicking lazily at the blankets Dean had tucked around him a few hours ago after patching him up. Mercifully last night was the last full moon of the month, so Dean didn't have to deal with his brother turning yet. He had a few weeks before he had to cross that bridge...or burn it.

"Rise and shine, Sammy!" Dean called as usual, forcing himself to stand up and see to it their things were packed. They were, of course, him having packed them and unpacked them repeatedly through the night just to give his anxious hands something to do.

Sam groaned sleepily, looking like he was about to pull the comforter over his head and go back to sleep. Dean couldn't say he'd be surprised if he did, but they should have left last night and only stayed because of the state Sam was in. Now they had to get going.

"C'mon, Sammy, time to get up, we gotta ditch this town," Dean reached Sam's side and thwacked him over the head a bit harder than he'd originally intended.

"Ow! Hey!" Sam yelped, swatting blindly at Dean, eventually rolling over onto his back and squinting at the alarm clock, "Dude it's like, six in the morning-"

"So? You're always up this early, now c'mon, we can't hang around for you to get your beauty sleep, princess, we wasted two wolves last night, and we need to get the hell outta dodge."

Sam grumbled at him, swearing a bit at having been called princess. He got out of bed and stumbled about blearily, his body running on auto pilot. Dean could see the usually continually turning cogs in his brother's head were all laying motionless except for those few that were vital to moving his arms and legs. Neither of them had ever been good at waking up quickly. They could tumble out of bed and get out of a motel so fast all the staff would see of 'em was bare feet and elbows as they dashed for the impala, and then the gravel spewing out from under their tires. But usually that sort of action was due to an emergency of the 'leave now or get killed by something you can't hope to defeat' variety. Those did not come very often, and so even now, as Dean knew that it would be best for them to get on the road as soon as possible, that did not warrant Sam having to think on a higher level than 'shower, clothes, shoes, coffee.'

* * *

In an hour they were checked out of the motel, things in the car, and driving out of town. Dean dug around in his jacket pocket for his cell phone, intending on calling Stephen to let him know they'd finished the job for him. Sam was rapidly becoming more cognizant of himself, his brother, and their surroundings now that he'd showered and acquired a cup of coffee from the motel lobby and was sitting upright in the passenger seat. Dean wondered how long it would take before Sam said something about the rather apparent bite mark on his shoulder. He'd listened to the spray of the shower, and his brother moving around in the bathroom, dreading the sudden outcry of horror and rage. But none had come, and instead, Sam had shuffled out of the shower, and fumbled around looking for his socks and shoes. He looked for all the world like all his strings had been cut except for the one attached to the nape of his neck, and it was dragging him along with the rest of him as deadweight.

Dean dialed Stephen's number, and held his phone to his ear while his left hand kept them moving down the freeway.

A few rings later and Stephen's gruff voice greeted him through the earpiece, "Yello."

"Hey Stephen, it's Dean Winchester," Dean started.

"Dean! Good to hear from ya, you boys finish the job?"

"Yessir, we did, got both of 'em last night, was just calling to let you know."

Stephen's grin carried over the phone as he said, "Thanks, son, you boys are doing your daddy proud."

Dean cringed and nearly faltered as he replied, "No problem, Stephen, and...thanks."

"Where is he these days, anyways? It's not like John to be _this_ unreachable," Stephen laughed but Dean could hear the genuine concern in his voice and Dean wished he had an answer for him.

"I dunno, sir, you know as much as we do."

"Alright, well, if you hear from him, you find out he's doing okay, you boys gimme a call and let me know."

"Will do."

Dean closed his phone and slipped it back into his pocket. Sam had been so quiet all morning that when he did finally talk it startled the hell out of Dean and he nearly slammed his head into the roof of the car.

"Dean," Sam yawned, "I know that you wanted to get a room closer to the werewolves' hunting ground for the sake of convenience, but the next time we stop for the night, we _have_ to find some place better, okay?"

"Um...okay?" Dean probably would have had something caustic to say in reply if his mind wasn't filled up with the frantic mantra of '_what am I going to do what am I going to do whatamigoingtodo_'. For now, weary confusion would have to suffice.

"Dude the sheets had blood on them and the walls had scorch marks, and I couldn't even shave cuz the mirror in the bathroom had been stolen!"

That's why Sam hadn't started yelling at him yet. Well, technically he was at the moment but this was just standard Sam-whining for him to ignore. Every few minutes Dean tried to glance down at his own shoulder where he knew Sam's bite was, just to see what the likelihood of him having seen it without a mirror would have been. But as it turned out, it was just out of his line of sight. Perfect. Dean just had to make sure that wherever they stayed for the next few weeks didn't have a mirror anywhere.

That was probably one of the most idiotic ideas he'd had to date, but he was a desperate man.

"Dean!"

"What?!" Dean did jump this time and looked over to his brother first and then back to the road around him second, which he figured was most likely out of order but he didn't care. Nothing appeared to be wrong so he cuffed Sam over the head and glared at him.

"What the hell was that? Dude you never yell like that when somebody's driving!"

"Had to get your attention somehow!"

"What is it then?"

Sam huffed as he was typically wont to do, and asked the question of the year, "What the hell's wrong with you, man?"

_Well, Sammy, quite a number of things, however-_

"I think...well I'm _hoping_ it's not what I think, you know, forget it, why don't you just tell me what happened with the wolves last night?"

_Please don't make me..._

"I mean, obviously we both got back to the room safe and sound, and I heard you telling Stephen that you got the last werewolf. All I remember is tracking her all the way to that place the other wolves used to use as a den, and then I guess she got the better of me because after that is where my memory stops, I think she hit me over the head."

"Sammy," Dean managed, finally, his voice dropping to a timbre he tended to reserve for when his patience was at its thinnest, it was his 'warning' voice, "can we save this for when I'm not driving?"

"Fine, pull over."

"Dude, I'm not going to pull over on the freeway, I can't unless there's an emergency, and _don't you dare make one."_

Sam sighed broodingly, hunched his shoulders at Dean and pressed his forehead against the windowpane. If only it started raining, the picture of angst would be complete. Dean grumbled and started searching for an exit ramp. They couldn't have been on the road for more than half an hour and already he would be finding a suitable parking lot to have the worst conversation possible with his brother. His mind contradicted him, of course, trying to find a worse discussion topic, and many a worse subject did he find. They all seemed to involve something sexual, though, which just made him awkward and start running one hand through his hair.

By the time he did manage to pull off the road, it _had_ started raining and Dean's hair was pointing in all sorts of directions. He hadn't gotten to shower, being a bundle of nerves and all, he just wanted to get outta town. The oil seeping into his hair ensured that it stuck in whatever course Dean's anxious hands pushed it. Sam didn't bother looking at him, he merely sighed moodily and waited. Dean waited too, wishing that Sam could just pull the words out of his mind and know them without him having to say anything. But he didn't, and it actually made Dean feel a bit better, because if his little brother could pull that type of crazy spoon bender trick then he'd be even more worried.

"Sammy."

"It's Sam."

"Sam."

That caught his brother's attention sure enough. Sam was staring at him now, a bit concernedly because Dean had just accepted the correction without a smart ass remark, and that just wasn't natural. It was one of those things that could make a person check for a fever or sign of illness if it didn't occur.

"What's wrong, Dean?"

"She...it...no, no, _she_," Dean corrected himself because if _she_ was an 'it' that meant Sam was an 'it' too, and he couldn't be, he'd always be his little brother, "...she turned you."

"...what?"

Dean hated the way Sam's voice wrenched out of him like that, broken and disbelieving.

"She bit you, Sam."

"No."

Dean didn't have anything to say to that but 'yes, actually' and somehow that sounded too sarcastic for the moment. He figured that if _he_ thought something was too serious to joke about, then the world might be coming to an end. Then again, his little brother had been turned into a monster and he hadn't prevented it, so as far as Dean was could tell, the world _was_ ending.

"No, Dean, you, did you see her-"

"Sammy, check your shoulder," Dean ordered.

"What, no, Dean-"

Dean reached over and grabbed at Sam's shirt collar and pulled it down, grabbed Sam's right hand and forced it onto the healing bite mark on his skin. He made sure that Sam's fingers ran over the shape of the bite, over the fang marks, and then he let go. He slumped over the wheel, curling around it almost like it was a security blanket. The whole impala was, really. Sam just couldn't sit there and mope, though, he just had to make it worse. Clearly the whole scenario just wasn't dramatic enough for him yet, he had to say it.

"Kill me."

"No."

Dean didn't even look up, there was no question. It wasn't a matter of he didn't want to kill Sam. He couldn't. He was fairly certain that even if he held the gun in his hands, or the knife, his hands would rebel against him, go numb, and he'd be paralyzed.

"Why didn't you kill me when you first found out, huh? What's wrong with you?"

Dean hadn't intended to give Sam the satisfaction of reacting to that moronic question. But he did anyways, because he couldn't help it. The thought that Sam truly couldn't grasp why Dean hadn't killed him was so infuriating it made him see red. He figured that he must have looked as mad as he felt because Sam had the good sense to look at least a little cowed. He did that weird little brother thing where he folded in on himself just a bit, so even though he was taller by a few inches he somehow looked much, much smaller.

"I don't know, maybe it's because you're my brother or something stupid like that, what the hell were you thinking, Sam?"

"But I'm not your brother anymore, I'm a monster, _Dean_," Sam stressed his name, like he did when he was getting good and riled, and Dean rolled his eyes at him, "I'm a werewolf now, and I'm not just going to sit around and wait to turn into a killer, if you won't off me, then I'll do it myself."

Dean didn't let him get as far as getting the car door open. He had him in a headlock and they were thrashing about in the front seat like they were kids again, fighting over something as trivial as where to eat. Back then it was a punchable offense according to the ever-hateful little Sammy, Dean trying to pick where they were going to get burgers. At that point though, Dean recalled, anything was a punchable offense in Sam's book because at that point in his life, Sam hated the whole world for no particular reason other than it probably seemed like a good idea at the time. Dean remembered that time of his life, where he too had hated himself and every thing that moved and every thing that didn't because all there was to do was hate things and rebel against social norms. It was the dark ages that everyone went through. As soon as they came out the other side and realized the sun was shining and the world was a pretty crappy place but it wasn't that bad, they would look back on those dark times and cringe in embarrassment. Dean wondered if Sam was still dark, still hating the world. Sometimes it sure seemed that way with the fashion in which he could drag the shine and color and beauty out of the earth with just one sigh.

"Sam, you done?"

"No!"

Sam writhed and kicked and elbowed, trying to escape his grip for a little while longer. Dean could feel his arm wrapped around Sam's neck tightening into a dead man's grip, however, and he knew that Sam would tire soon. Sure enough, Sam's protests slowed and weakened until finally he was scrunched up in the front seat with his feet pressed against the passenger side window, and the crown of his head was against the steering wheel. Dean still held him in a headlock, and by now his shirt had rucked up all the way to just under his arms and he had Indian burns all over his torso from the worn and torn leather bench seat.

"Now you done?"

"Fuck you."

"Good."

Dean didn't dare let him go, for fear of his little brother being a stubborn bastard and wandering around to the trunk and forcing it open so he could dig out a silver knife or one of their many guns to be equipped with silver bullets. With Dean's luck these days, he'd somehow not scramble out of the impala fast enough to stop Sam and then the world really would come to an end. Dean had never considered life without Sam. Sure, he'd been away from him for four years thanks to Stanford. But that wasn't the same, he knew, because Sam was still alive then. He was as distant as normality always would be for their family, but he was alive. If Dean wanted he could have shown up on his doorstep, knocked on his door and seen him, living, breathing, and very real. He'd have been ten shades of pissed off, of course, but Dean could have dealt with that. He was absolutely certain he couldn't deal with Sammy being dead.

"Dean, let me go."

"No."

"And quit petting me."

"I'm not-" Dean looked down at Sam, head still crushed against the steering wheel, and discovered that his left hand was tangled in Sam's hair, smoothing it down, and rubbing gently at his scalp like he used to do when Sam was really little. He was regressing. That was not a good sign.

"You're not dying, Sam."

"But Dean-"

"No, you can't...you just can't, alright? You can go back to school and I'll find Dad on my own, if that's what you want, but I'm not letting you die, you can't do that to me."

"Dean, I'm a werewolf."

"I know."

Dean noticed that his hand had betrayed him and continued 'petting' Sam, but his brother didn't say anything, for which he was grateful.

"So what are we going to do?"

"We'll figure it out."

"Dean, we'll 'figure it out' isn't good enough in this situation."

Sam's annoying retorts and protests were a soothing balm on his frazzled nerves. Sam had always been relentlessly stubborn, just like their father, actually, and had always pushed for a straight answer. He would always ask questions, never satisfied with Dean's old standby's of 'We'll see', 'We'll find out', and 'Let it go Sam, it'll come to us.' Familiarity, well worn habits, and each other's faces, and perhaps the impala, those were the closest things they had to a home, and it was comforting Dean quickly and effectively.

"We keep hunting like normal, see if things crop up, like you suddenly wanna piss on fire hydrants or something, to see if you've really turned," Dean joked, "and then the next full moon, we'll deal with it. I'll lock you up, hold you down, whatever I have to do."

"If you have to kill me, what then, Dean?"

"That won't happen."

"Dean-"

"It won't, Sammy, I won't let it."

Sam sighed, and Dean ignored him in favor of asking, "If I let you go, are you going to try to kill yourself?"

"No."

"Sammy..."

"I won't!"

"Promise me, Sam, that no matter what happens, you won't try to kill yourself, _please_."

For a long while Sam wouldn't say anything, and Dean felt scared. He wasn't particularly fond of being afraid because it was one of the first things that his father had trained out of him, aside from crying. With the things they hunted, you didn't have time to be afraid, if you were going to just sit around and cower, than you were no good to anyone.

Sam's breathing was slowing and evening out and Dean shook him roughly, not wanting him to fall asleep before he could get that promise out of him, "_Sammy_."

God he sounded so pathetic. That voice couldn't really belong to Dean Winchester, could it? It was needy and whiny and so damn pitiful he-

"I promise," Sam assured him, though the words sounded almost as whiny as Dean felt. It was still a promise, and Dean made him say it again a few more times before letting him be.

"Now will you let me go?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah," Dean released Sam from his headlock. His little brother wriggled around until he was sitting upright again, and he was massaging his neck which probably had a few crinks in it by now.

"Where to?"

"Anywhere that's a few hundred miles from here," Dean quipped as he started the impala.

"Mm, wake me when we get there."

Sam leaned against the window, and drifted off to sleep, and Dean let him, because he was just happy he was still alive.


End file.
